The Electric Floor
by Jessiboo-Choka
Summary: Contemplation of a raver!hogwarts student. Short but decent. I don’t actually think this is as OOC as it could have been… Please read and review!


Title: The Electric Floor  
  
Author: Jessiboo  
  
Summary: Contemplation of raver!hogwarts student. Short but decent. I don't actually think this is as OOC as it could have been.  
  
Notes: Rated PG-13 for drug and sex references. Oh, and I'm really not very good with British slang. o-O I try my best, yo, but I'd appreciate any advice or feedback. Enjoy! ^_^  
  
*~*~*  
  
I doubt that many people are going to take my advice on this, but it is my opinion that everyone I know would benefit from going to a rave. They're really quite a unique experience, whether you go to dance and take in a little Happy Hardcore, sit back and let the deep house bass roll over you, or if you're just there because it's the easiest way to get some sweeeeeet drugs, as Pansy calls them. Whatever your purpose is, you'll find an outlet in the midst of the smokiest, filthiest, sweatiest collection of sub- humanity with a pair of rarely-washed UFO's and deteriorating kandy up their arms. A rave isn't really a party, no matter how the language wants to mold it to convention. This is not an opportunity to make connections and relax. A rave is a spiritual connection with a primitive emotion; sex with the sound if you will.  
  
Personally, I go for the dancing. You might not think it to look at me, but I'll be the last one on the floor when the sun rises and the MC's come out of their MVP rooms and promptly forget whomever they've been banging for the last 3 hours. No matter what kind of week you've had, or who's let you down, or whatever guilt is weighing on your shoulders so heavy you don't know if you'll be able to face yourself in the mirror- it doesn't matter on the dance floor. Nobody's looking at you, nobody cares who you are as long as you're moving, moving, kicking your feet and throwing back your head, rolling your shoulders and closing your eyes to blur the light show- shouting at the DJ that yes, yes he is your God (scratch that vinyl till your fingers bleed). It doesn't matter that the music doesn't have any message. That's not why you go- it's not about the lyrics; not at all. If it were the best DJs would be out of business because of the triteness of their tracks- how many songs with the line "flying on a cloud of eternity" can there *be?* No, it's about the freedom to give up looking nice and feel a rhythm all your own. And who can criticize you? The good dancers have gotten that way because this is their life, and there's not a lot you can do with glowsticking in the real world, anyway.  
  
I went to my first rave with a crowd of morons who promptly flittered away and left me standing alone at the Dance Safe booth, wearing trousers that were entirely inappropriate and a shirt that didn't breath. I only met up with the people I came with after the house lights came on and they needed me again- imagine that, needing a car to get home. I was disgusted at their scent, the hair plastered to their foreheads and the way they clung to one another, trailing their fingers up and down each others' backs and taking turns sucking on a filthy pacifier. I went by myself after that. There are limits to what I will tolerate, even from a fellow Slythern.  
  
This particular event calls itself "Nightfire," and jungle seems to be the style of choice. It's not really my style, and I've been taking it light. Water will probably be a euro; I've seen it sold for as much as five which is extortion considering there are a lot of kids risking dehydration. I hear a singularly frustrated voice growl angrily over the swells of bass.  
  
"Look at this, some fucking e-tards blocking the stairs."  
  
I recognize the voice that mutters a reply, and resolve myself to thirst for a while longer. The glowsticks are losing their light and I shove them in my Tribal bag amidst a frenzy of t-shirts, promotional CDs and flyers. For all the sweat that goes on in these clubs I always end up leaving 7 kilos heavier. I wonder if my Brittrax trance mix will be any good. It doesn't much matter; I don't tend to listen to techno outside this setting anyway. I sit down next to everybody's favorite savior and wait to see if he'll speak first. It's really not as much a surprise as you might think to see him here.  
  
"That wasn't very politically correct," he laughs, his eyes (lazer green flashing through the room) rolling back in his head.  
  
"Yeah, neither is popping pills the week before finals, Potter," I snear. It's quite a disturbing look; I admit it. It's a thing I do. Tragically, it is lost on him, and he flops his arm onto my lap for me to tease. I do, if only because I cannot think of a reason not to.  
  
I conjecture some insults that would be fitting, but I doubt he would hear them. His head settles on my arm and his hair covers his face; I consider finding him something to eat so he doesn't get lockjaw. I wouldn't want to lose my opportunity to refine my verbal sparring skills the last few days of school. Maybe later, I decide, leaning back to the coldness of the concrete wall. A new DJ takes up the set and the party carries on, of course, completely regardless of my presence. I look to my nemesis and, although you won't hear me utter it, totally understand. It's good to forget sometimes. 


End file.
